


Old Stone

by ForErusSake, tehhumi



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen, War of Wrath, a whole bunch of background canon death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForErusSake/pseuds/ForErusSake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tehhumi/pseuds/tehhumi
Summary: Finarfin during the War of Wrath, witnessing what has become of his family and Beleriand.
Relationships: Finarfin & Maedhros
Comments: 10
Kudos: 32
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	Old Stone

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written by Tehhumi, inspired by ForErusSake's amazing art for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020.
> 
> The art is rebloggable on tumble [ here](https://forerussake.tumblr.com/post/627671810672033793/super-happy-to-share-my-part-of-the-collaboration)

Finarfin stood at the prow of the ship. They had sighted land in the distance the day before, and know the captain was saying they were only a few hours from landfall. 

Earwen was the commodore of the Valinorean fleet, but she had agreed that her husband’s ship should be in front. She was on the flagship, sailing farther back where the fleet could easily hear her commands - and if necessary, her signal to retreat. Finarfin was in the lead, flying a flag with Finwe's sun. Prince Ingwion of Valmar was officially in command, but he was no sailor, and there was no certainty any in Beleriand would recognize his sign. Earendil certainly hadn’t. 

Finarfin’s ship would be the first to meet whatever was waiting for them in Beleriand. Hopefully it would be their family. There were, at least, no reports of orcs having boats, and certainly not ships. If Finarfin fell, the rest of the fleet could safely sail away and land somewhere else.

The ship approached an island that matched Earendil and Elwing's description of Balar. Unien had said she would steer them there, and Eonwe said Lord Manwe would makes sure the winds were fair, and indeed the journey had been easy. Still, Finarin found it nice to be able to see for himself that they were in the right place.

An even more welcome sight was the ship that weighed anchor and sailed towards them. The elves left in Beleriand had not all been slaughtered by orcs (or by each other).

Most of the fleet hung back, where they could flee if it was a trap, safe from any arrows from the new ship, as well as letting it be safe from them.

The ship approaching was flying a flag with a star - but it had six points, rather than the eight Finarfin was familiar with from his brother's sigil.

"Hail! What brings you to Balar? We had not known of any others elves in Beleriand, save for those who never departed Cuivienen. Are you they?" The words were in Sindarin, of course, and Finarfin hoped that his grasp of the language was up to the task. 

"No, I am afraid we still do not have news for you of more elves in Beleriand. The Lady Elwing and Lord Earendil petitioned the Valar for aid, and it has been granted. These ships are crewed by Teleri and bring an army of Vanyar and Noldor accompanied by Maiar."

"Earndeil and Elwing's survival is joyous news indeed. All who wish to defeat the Dark Foe are welcome here, and a fleet such as yours all the more so. The Valar did not sail themselves?"

Lord Eonwe replied to this. He had not been on Finarfin’s ship a moment ago, but the wind was whipping around and he must have come with it. “The Valar could not sail on ships crewed by elves, for the Children are not meant to dwell constantly near the Valar, but to seek out their own destinies. To be in such a close place with one so great for months at sea would overwhelm you with glory. But we have comes, and will prepare a path for our Lords as stepping stones across a river.” 

Finarfin spoke up before the conversation could get derailed into the philosophy of Maiar, who spoke in a dozen layers of meaning at once and lived their lives in twice that. "But my manners have been ill, and I have skipped all introductions. I am King Finarfin of Tirion, leader of the Noldorin army. His holiness Lord Eonwe is the herald of Manwe. Prince Ingwion leads the army of Valmar, and Princess Earwen of Alqualonde commands the fleet."

The man in the ship nodded. "Welcome. I am simply Cirdan. King Gil-Galad remained on Balar, in case these ships were ill news."

Finarfin's heart leapt at confirmation that his great-grandson still lived. They had never met, but still it was a connection. "Elwing and Earendil speak well of you. May we dock at your port, and speak further with Gil-Galad?"

"Your ship may. We do not have houses, or even tents, for your whole fleet to disembark though, and if they did they would trample what few fields we've been able to maintain. Do you have enough provisions to wait until we retake some of the mainland?"

"Yes, of course. We will need water in the next two weeks, but we have sufficient food. We were unsure if there would be anyone at all to hep when we reached shore"

* * *

Finarfin sat down across from Gil-Galad. The initial meeting in the throne room (well, that was what Cirdan had called it, though it was far less grand than the least receiving room in the palace in Tirion) had been awkward, but gone well enough. Finarfin had bowed as he would have meeting King Olwe in Alqualonde, if Olwe was not his father-in-law, rather than the proper kneel that would be appropriate if Gil-Galad had been his king. Gil-Galad had stood in return rather than remaining seated, but had not bowed.

"I suppose you have a lot of questions before we can plan an attack," Gil-Galad said.

"Yes there's tactical questions but also personal. Who else in our family is still alive?"

"Well, since you came we know that Earendil survived, so I have one more living relative than I did yesterday. Celebrimbor is my chief armorer. Aunt Galadriel - I apologize I can't recall the Quenya at the moment, it's been a long few years, but your daughter - is alive, along with her husband."

"Artanis is married? To whom?"

"Yes, she's been married for a few decades at least. Her husband is Celeborn of Doriath, some sort of relative or King Thingol, may he rest in peace. Did Elwing or Earendil not mention? She’s kin to both of them."

"No, they didn't."

"I'm sure that had a lot on their minds."

"Indeed. Is that truly everyone? What about Earendil's sons, and my sister?"

"We found no children's bodies in Sirion, but no one ever found Elwing's brothers either. With it being on a cliff so close to the ocean, we assume they fell."

"How old were they?" FInarfin whispered.

"Six years old, though as tall as elves of fifteen. It may not be my place to say, but are you sure you wish to discuss this now? You've had a long voyage. Our quartermasters and cavalry leaders are discussing the necessary logistics, all else can wait until tomorrow. There's no shame in something being hard to hear."

"It might be hard for me to hear, but you had to live it. Tell me now, please."

"There's not much more to say. Lalwen is dead for certain, an orc ambush a few years ago. She was defending some farmers a few miles west of the mouth of Sirion. They were able to reach the ships in time, and that's when we decided that nowhere but Balar was safe."

"That's all of our family left?"

"Yes. Unless _you've_ had word of Idril."

Finarfin shook his head. "So Feanor's sons are all dead?"

Gil-Galad grimaced. "I generally try to forget I'm related to them. It's not like I ever met any of them, and Celebrimbor doesn't bring them up either. But there's only two of them left. Amras and Amrod died when they pillaged Sirion. Maedhros and Maglor survived it, and are either dead in a ditch somewhere or alive and plotting how to attack us again."

Finarfin looked a little green. "Thank you for telling me."

Gil-Galad softened his tone. "I'm sorry if I said that flippantly, I am aware that they have not always been evil. Did you know them?"

"Maedhros, Maglor and I were friends together as children, and my sons played with their younger brothers. We kept in touch right up until his Feanor threatened Fingolfin’s life, and stopped allowing his sons any friends outside Formenos. But you are right, if they have sent no word we can hardly count on them against Morgoth."

"We can't count on them not to slit the throats of any party we send ashore either."

"We'll have to be on guard against orcs and, to hear Earendil tell it, evil Men as well. I will remind my scouts that an unfamiliar elf may likewise be a threat."

“Or familiar. The Feanorians are ruthlessly skilled fighters, and there are more surviving Amanyar in their host than in the whole rest of the continent.”

“Not anymore. Tirion is empty, and Valmar and Alqualonde nearly so. Every Noldor and Vanya who is able has taken up arms, and Prince Ingwion and I command the united armies of the Calaquendi.”

“The younger generation of Noldor is quite skilled as well, as are the Sindar. Don’t be so quick to discount those who fought while you sat idly by in Valinor.”

“I apologize, I meant no insult. Merely that we have had time and resources to prepare, and so are skilled as well. Though Elwing and Earendil were careful never to criticize us, as they desired aid so badly, Finrod did warn me of the tension here due to Noldor believing themselves above Sindar, and Elves believing themselves above Men. The difference between Amanayar and Umanyar is current circumstance, not fundamental nature.”

“Forgiven and forgotten,” Gil-Galad brushed the matter aside. “But you have spoken to Finrod? I had thought - that is, my father said that those in Mandos were not permitted to speak with the living.”

“It’s closer to not able; the agony of death lingers long and sharp in a soul’s memory, to hear Finrod tell it.”

“But you spoke to him all the same?”

“Not while he was dead. But he is alive again, though he remained in Alqualonde with his grandfather. The Valar have said it is unwise for the returned to go again into battle; a second death is harder to recover from.”

Gil-Galad was speechless for a moment. “That’s incredible. It’s wonderful - I miss Uncle Finrod, and I know my father took his death hard - but it hardly seems real. I was told that the dead can return in Valinor, but no one here has ever met anyone who had, so the distinction between us and Men seemed mostly a philosophical curiosity. But you say Finrod lives.”

“He lives, and he sent letters - though some of them I sadly can’t deliver. He is the first of the Noldor to return though; even those who died crossing the Helcaraxe are still in the Halls.”

“Even so, it’s hope. And not just for me, but for all the people of Beleriand. Hope that one day, the can see their family again. Not to say you’re not family, or that I’m not happy to see you-”

Finarfin cut in. “I understand. I am glad to meet you, but it doen’t make me miss those who are gone any less.”

Gil-Galad nodded. “But I really would be remiss in my duties if I kept this meeting purely personal. How do you plan for the army to move?”

“The Valar will imprison Morgoth, but they can no more break Angband’s gates that Morgoth can break the Pelori; it is an expression of his spirit that their spirits cannot overcome. But Elves and Men are spirit and body both, and so can break the physical gates and the spiritual ones will fall as well. We will sail up the Sirion as far we may, and then keep marching north. I expect you know a lot more of the tactical details than Ingwion or I do, but let that wait until morning. We are safe enough on Balar; if Morgoth had ships of his own he would have attacked years ago.”

“Unless our arrival has provoked him. But that cannot be helped, and you’re right that it can wait until morning.”

* * *

Over the next year, the combined armies of Valinor of Beleriand marched north along the Sirion, as far as it lasted, for easy fresh water. The ships had turned back when they craped bottom scarcely a dozen miles from the shore, and all the Teleri, including Earwen, with them. It had been an excellent tactical decision, even as Finarfin felt himself taunted with every new landmark. Hail, High King of Tirion, who turned back out of cowardice as all his family continued on. Hail, to the noble and wise, see the graves of your children. 

The Narog split off, and Finarfin couldn’t follow it to the city his son had built, his grandson had ruled and died in. There was no time to stop and view the ruin - the bodies had never been properly buried, there was no need to go see a place that was less than a grave. Here was the woods which once was Doriath, where his daughter - who now scorned the names given by both himself and his wife - was almost cut down by his best friend. Here the Teiglin branched off to the west, and thought they did not follow it he knew that it would lead to the Haudh-en-Elleth, where his great-granddaughter was buried after dying with a spear through her lung. A great-granddaughter he had never met, had not even known of her existence at any point she was alive. 

The army did go within sight of Tol Sirion. The city Finrod had founded, and Orodreth had held, and Finrod had died in. They waited there for a while, readying themselves to leave the protection of the northern mountains and cross the plains of Anfauglith. So there was a chance for Finarfin to visit the grave of one of his children, the one he least needed to. 

The plain of Anfauglith (which had been Ard-galen when Aegnor and Angrod lived) was bare with no hills to climb or rivers to ford, but that did not make for easy progress. There were thoroughly in Morgoth’s territory (Feanor, for all his faults, had named their foe well), and they fought orcs nearly every day. Occasionally it would just be a band of a few dozen who seemed surprised by the army of elves. But usually it would be a company of hundreds or thousands, already entrenched and ready, so that every mile was paid for in blood, both of allies an enemies. The nights were not peaceful either, with screams in the distance and scouts disappearing, to be found the next day with their bodies mutilated.

Eonwe made sure the ash blew away from them, and Ilmare made the night brighter, but they were still weary in foot and spirit by the time they saw a smudge of green on the horizon.

“I thought nothing grew here,” Finarfin said.

“Morgoth’s fire cursed this land, but sacrifice can hallow it,” Eonwe said. “Not all is hopeless.”

“Than that must be -” Gil-Galad said. “I had never seen it myself, and had imagined it much smaller. But you could build a fort on that.”

“Indeed,” Eonwe said, “or even a castle. Though I suppose some would find it disrespectful.”

“Respectful or rude, we need a place to rest. No fell creature will bother us if we camp there. Can we reach it tonight, Lord Eonwe? Your eyes see further than mine.”

“With daylight to spare.”

“What is the place?’ Finarfin asked. “I had heard of no places sacred to the Valar in Beleriand.” 

“Haudh-en-Ndengin,” Gil-Galad answered, “where the bodies of those slain in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad were piled together, for there were not enough left alive to give them proper respect.”

Finarfin was struck speechless at the blasphemy of it. (He had wondered, as child. Why his visions had been so sorrowful though they were were mostly of beautiful green hills. The first he had recognized at the Darkening, with the Tree stumps on Ezellohar. Three more were from Beleriand. The mountain pass had not yet come, nor the rings in the golden wood, but he feared who he would lose to them.)

"You would camp on their very bodies?" 

"Better than their sacrifice being entirely meaningless. The battle was a tragedy, but it may help us."

Finarfin still looked queasy.

"They're not there, you know." Gil-Galad said after a moment. "My grandfather and uncle - your sons - they died years befoe the Nirnaeth, and their bodies aren't in that mound. None of our kin is. Well, mabe Fingon, no one has good records of his death."

"You thinks that makes it better, to not know whose bones lie underneath my feet?"

"I think it is true, whether or not it helps."

FInarfin slept ill that night. He did not see ghosts exactly, for the spirits of these dead had all gone to Mandos long ago. But he saw visions. A laughing man running to hug his son. A tall elf with a spear that was even taller than her. A dwarf carried by a dozen of his kindred. All of these were true and had happened to someone whose bones rested under Finarfin's pillow.

But the rest of the camp slept easily. These visions were Finarfin's solitary torment, as they always had been.

Under the light of the Trees, Finarfin had not known his visions came of the past as well as the future. He had always seen tragedies that were still to come (and occasional triumphs; one day a golden haired woman would marry a dark haired man in a mountain valley). How could he know the effects of battlefields in peaceful Aman? That the blood and death of such a place would soak in to the earth and stay, and then come out again to soak into his head. That the echoes of violence would haunt him, but that the peaceful scenes would be worse, for those were scenes of a life now cut tragically short. There had been no battlefields in Vaiinor under the trees, and only one grave. Finarfin had slept in Lorien before, but always far from Miriiel’s body, and always with Lord Irmo’s protective watch. 

Alqualonde, Finarfin’s adopted home, had been the first place Finarrfin had seen the past. Following Feanor north they had not stopped in the city long enough to sleep, but returning towards tirion after the Doom they had needed a place to rest. Finarfin had approached the palace with no sword or crown asking for a warm place for the children to spend the night (the wounded would not be welcome after how the got their injuries). Olwe had been far more merciful than Finarfin had dared hope, and allowed anyone in the city who would leave all weapons outside. Not all would come, some afraid of Morgoth returning with the creature of unlight, some wary that Feanor would return and demand they explain their desertion, the few who had fought for the ships and now repented but still dared not enter Alqualonde, and healers who were tending the wounded. 

Finarfin himself had been invited to the palace, though Earwen did not wish to share with him the suite the normally had when visiting her family. Instead he was put in Finrod’s usual room, the gaudy paintings and sheets of music a reminder of the son Finarfin was abandoning. He was abandoning _all_ his children, leaving them to Feanor’s dubious leadership against whatever dangers and evils Morgoth had in store for them, simply to spare his own conscience. But he couldn’t keep going knowing that the were Doomed to fail, and seeing death ahead. Finarfin saw nothing at all in Valinor’s, and so decided to stay where there was a chance of horror rather than a certainty. He had not thought himself the type to prefer a comforting ignorance, but here he was. 

Finarfin had nearly thrown up on his father-in-law’s shoes the next day, watching the dead line the streets of his adopted hometown. Most were Teleri, but there were echoes of Noldor as well. Some he recognized, by face if not by name, but Aman was too large for him to know everyone in it. Finarfin had said nothing then, for his tragedy was surely the least of any in the city by the coast, and he had not seen a reason to bring it up later. There was nothing to haunt him in Tirion, after all.

Finarfin had known before he landed that Beleriand would provide fertile fuel for his nightmares. But he had turned back in fear once, and would not do so again. Likewise, he would not make others cater to his weakness if instead he could bear it himself.

Finarfin stood beside Lord Eowne and looked out over the remains of Angband. The army he led from Tirion had been in the senter of the lines to break the gates, and were now tending their wounded and coutning up toheir dead. Gil-Galad and his army were helping evacuate the former thralls from the ruined fortress. Ingwion was watching the Valar imprison Morgoth, being one of the few who was accustomed to their presence, but an elf so that those who were skeptical of all Powers would have a witness.

Maedhros and his army had been working - well not with them, but near them. A battle would happen against Morgoth’s orcs, and the orcs would be unable to flee the hosts of Valinor. They’d be harried by a small company bearing the star of Feanor. But they always flanked, keeping the evil forces between themselves and their allies. Still, Finarfin had hoped. There were only so many orcs, and at some point Maedhros would have to meet him face to face. Then they could talk, and Finarin could ask him what in Varda’s name he had been thinking.

Except he didn’t. Morgoth was defeated, Angband had fallen, and Maedhros was nowhere to be found. 

A couple weeks later, the answer arrived, in a sense. Maedhros had all but pinned a note to child's robe as they came back from a tutor, but it was a message.

The guards had spotted two figures approaching from the east. It didn't take long to discern that they were not Maedhros and Maglor. They announced themselves, when questioned, as Elrond and Elros, sons of Elwing and Earendil. They came bearing a message from Lord Maedhros.

Elrond had memorized the message as well as carrying a letter. The Silmarils were the property of the house of Feanor, and Maedhros son of Feanor wanted them. Maedhros expected the Silmarils to be brought to a cottage in the foot of the mountains (there was a map, and the boys knew the place) in two weeks time.

The letter was not an apology - for Alqualonde, for abandoning Finarfin, for a thousand crimes against the Noldor and Sindar of Beleriand. It was a demand. The Silmarils were Maedhros’s by right, and he would take them. No possibility was admitted of the Silmarils remaining with Lord Eonwe, or of anything being traded or them.

Eonwe had no interest in obeying the letter. Finarfin had mentioned it, and Eonwe had replied "The Silmarils were hallowed by Varda. Feanor's sons lost any right to them when they held them up as an excuse for death."

Finrafin didn't really disagree. It was just the only way he could keep more of his family alive. His nephews might be - violent, and poorly directed, and have committed abhorrent unforgivable acts. But that didn't change the fact that his siblings were dead except for one, and his children except for one, and he still had two nephews. Maedhros and he had been friends as children, and even as Finarfin grew older and Feanor began to hate him they never hated each other.

Finarfin didn't know if Maedhros would attack. He just knew that if Maedhros did, Finarfin would call for his capture rather than death

Finarfin was angry about the presence of Elrond and Elros, though he tried not to show it where the children could see. And they _were_ children, for all their protests about being experienced warriors. Finarfin had been in the flush of a heady romance at their age. Finrod had been convinced he would become the greatest singer in Aman. Aegnor had been in his phase where he was certain he would be a sailor, not a prince. Angrod had been convinced he would never love at all, still years before he would meet Eldalote. Galadriel had been Artanis, brave and headstrong but still convinced that she could get everyone to adore her, even her prickly half-uncle.

Elros and Elrond at fifty could travel on their own across the wilderness for a week with no provisions, and only each other to rely on against evil creatures in the night. They had killed orcs and fell beasts - though not elves or men, they hastened to assure. Elros could describe in detail how the flanking maneuvers Maedhros was so fond of worked, and how to set them up again if they were more large groups of orcs. Elrond could mend broken bones and stop the bleeding from a severed arm, and would go into grisly detail about how to shatter a bone for safe amputation with no idea his listeners might be disconcerted.

Elros and Elrond ought to have been children, they ought to have been safe, but they had not been allowed to. Maedhros and Maglor had taken that from them twice - once in destroying their home, and again in raising them as soldiers.

Finarfinf didn't like thinking of how his friends - his _family_ had hurt children, but he couldn't deny that they had. Not as badly as they had hurt Elwing’s brothers of course, but Finarfin had been able to put those boys out of his mind. Elros and Elrond were a constantly present reminder of how the house of Feanor had fallen to little more than murdering brigands.

And the two last sons of Feanor (a prase that had always meant Ambarussa before) would do so again if they felt like it. But they surely were not idiots - two warriors, however good, against an army of thousands could not hope to survive. Eonwe would not hand over the Silmarils; Finarfin would simply do his best to put the matter out of his mind.

* * *

Fianrfin had been wrong. 

After the attack, Finarfin realized he did hate Maedhros, as much and more as he had ever hated Feanor. They had finally thought themselves safe after a war that lasted forty five years (or perhaps five hundred). Morgoth was defeated, and they could finally start to heal.

And instead there had been slaughter. Instead, _Maedhros and Maglor_ had slaughtered for the sake of their father's pride.

(What exactly Finwe took pride in had never been clear to Finarfin, but he had hoped it was peace and quiet governance. It was all he could offer his father's memory, not Feanor or Fingolfin's brave, half-mad charges straight at Morgoth. Just a slow, safe march across the land, and hanging back when they reached Angband itself to let Eonwe and the Valar handle it. Little glory for the Noldor in that, but little death as well.)

Finarfin startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He had been so occupied with his thoughts that he hadn’t Lord Eonwe walk over, and hadn’t noticed the crowd who had surrounded Maedhros and Mgalor dispersing either. He perhaps should have done something about that, but no one would be foolish to defy Eonwe’s order while he was still right there. Finarfin could grieve for a few minutes without worrying about mob justice coming after his nephews. 

He lifted his head to look at Eonwe. “I failed my people. I wanted so badly to believe Maedhros had repented, but he never did. And now these soldiers are dead because of it.”

“Maedhros had helped us in battle before; it was reasonable of you to trust him.”

“He fought against Morgoth while Morgoth held the Silmarils; that’s only to be expected from the one who sacked Doriath. Nothing he did helped any but himself.”

“It speaks to the good in you that you would see good in others.”

“Not if it makes me blind to what is truly there! Not if it means that even now, I grieve for his sake as well as those he killed. What kind of person sees a dead body and feels guilt for not aiding the murderer?”

“Your concern for all does you credit, but it is misplaced in this matter. You offered Maedhros mercy, and gave him every chance to surrender.”

“Did I though? I sent one letter where he requested the Silmaril, not even daring to approach my old friend in person for fear of an ambush. The letter was full of empty words, as I did not dare promise him clemency or safety when so many cry out against him for justice.”

“Maedhros’s own actions have made him dangerous to speak to, as we see the evidence of now. It shows wisdom, not cowardice, to stay among your guards rather than seek out danger. Wisdom as well to make no promises, for the right to judge belongs to Manwe, and the right to recompense to those harmed. You could not yield those on another’s behalf, no more than you could have given Feanor the ships on behalf of Olwe, or given Yavanna the Silmarils on Feanor’s behalf. Take heart in being neither a coward nor a theif, son of Finwe.” 

“I understand your words are kindly meant my lord, but they bring me no joy. My inaction may be prudence rather than cowardice, but my family died for it all the same. They say virtue is its own reward, and it certainly brings few others.”


End file.
